


You Know I'd Give My Life For You

by haggarrrd



Category: Les Misérables (2012), Les Misérables - All Media Types, Les Misérables - Victor Hugo
Genre: Comfort, Death, Hurt, M/M, Mourning, Sorrow
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2013-08-16
Updated: 2013-08-16
Packaged: 2017-12-23 15:25:08
Rating: Not Rated
Warnings: Creator Chose Not To Use Archive Warnings, Major Character Death
Chapters: 1
Words: 1,753
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/928093
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/haggarrrd/pseuds/haggarrrd
Summary: <blockquote class="userstuff">
              <p>When a protest goes wrong, Enjolras loses the most important thing in his life.</p>
            </blockquote>





	You Know I'd Give My Life For You

Protests were not Grantaire’s kind of thing; they always ended in some sort of squabble, his friends usually got hurt, and nothing good ever came from them, so as a rule he chose not to attend. But that was before he and Enjolras had started dating, and then the protests had kind of been mandatory, just as Enjolras was expected to show up to Grantaire’s dance recitals and art shows. Occasionally work or dance practice would save him from the annoyance that going to a protest caused him, but sometimes he just couldn’t avoid them.

Grantaire did not participate in protests however, nor was he expected to. On the odd occasion, Enjolras would have him design posters and flyers, but that had been Feuilly’s job far longer than it had been Grantaire’s and the cynic really didn’t care to take it from him. So he generally stood to the side of the stage while Enjolras preached to the crowd, keeping an eye out for any sign of trouble that might come the blonde’s way, and getting him out of the situation when it did. 

“We cannot stand aside and say nothing anymore!” Enjolras yelled from his position centre stage, one fist darting up into the air, and Grantaire rolled his eyes, a fond smile playing at his lips. He didn’t believe in anything that Enjolras was saying, but he sure did love watching his boyfriend when he was all riled up, his curly blond hair a mess and his pupils dilated. “The government think that we, the working class people, are nothing. Are we nothing?!”

“No!” The crowd yelled in unison, an angry vibe thick in the air.

Enjolras smiled slightly, pleased by the reaction of all those who had gathered to hear him talk. “Then the time to act is now! The government will walk all over us until we demand change. Demand lower taxes and higher pay! The government cannot continue crippling us workers—us who live day to day with barely enough money to cover our bills and our rent. The rich sleep with satin pillows beneath their heads while we slave away to survive. The time for change is now!” 

The crowd roared in retaliation, agreeing with every word that came out of the blonde’s mouth, and surged forward slightly, getting closer to the stage. Grantaire tensed immediately; if there was ever a sign that things were going to take a turn for the worse that was it. He edged a little closer to where Enjolras was standing, ready to jump in and save him should anything happen. Enjolras was still yelling to the crowd, but Grantaire was no longer listening; instead he was looking out at those who had gathered, watching them intently; he spotted Bahorel towards the back, his expression blazing and excited. 

Grantaire saw the rock flying towards the stage before he saw who threw it; it was hurtling straight towards Enjolras, who was still so busy yelling that he didn’t even see the fist sized rock coming towards him. Grantaire darted towards him, pushing the blond backwards slightly just in time for the rock to collide with his temple, and a riot ensued throughout the rest of the crowd. 

Grantaire fell backwards instantly, blinded by a pain that he hadn’t at all expected. He hit the floor hard and tried to remember how to breathe; pain was searing through his skull, and he could feel a wetness on the side of his face, trickling down his neck. 

“Grantaire!” Hands were on his face, under his neck, lifting his head up to rest it on something softer than the wooden surface of the stage. He cracked his eyes open, cringing when the light aggravated the searing pain in his skull and sent a wave of nausea through his stomach. Enjolras was leaning over him, his face a mixture of worry and anger. When he spoke, his voice was shaky and worried—not at all a reflection of what if had been a few moments before, “you idiot, why did you do that?”

Logically it didn’t make much sense—the rock had hit Grantaire in the head, and with Enjolras standing a head above the cynic, it would have struck his shoulder, but Grantaire wasn’t prepared to take such a chance. He’d take a stone to the head for Enjolras any day.

“Hey! Open your eyes,” Enjolras demanded upon noticing that Grantaire’s eyes had slipped close again. Grantaire opened them again, struggling against the tiredness that had come upon him. His eyelids felt heavy and his eyes stung too much to keep open, but he’d do anything Enjolras commanded him to do. “It’s okay, R, Combeferre’s coming and he’ll stop the bleeding, you’ll be fine, I promise.” 

Grantaire nodded without really listening to what Enjolras was telling him. Over the revolutionary’s shoulder he could see Jehan, tears on his face, and heard him choke out the words ‘so much blood’, to which Courfeyrac put an arm around his shoulder and held him close. 

Grantaire sighed, “M’tired.”

“I know,” Enjolras soothed, running a hand through Grantaire’s hair. “But you can’t sleep just yet, R. You’ve probably got the worst concussion in medical history. You know you can’t sleep with a concussion.” He paused and looked over his shoulder, mumbling something to Courfeyrac before turning his attention back towards his boyfriend, “it’s okay, it’s going to be okay.”

“I feel sick.” Grantaire declared in return, then promptly turned his head to the side and threw up onto the stage, managing to catch sight of some blood that had dripped from his wound onto the wooden platform. 

“Ambulance is nearly here,” The cynic heard Joly say, but he was too preoccupied heaving to turn to look at him. “Turn him on his side!”

Enjolras did as he was commanded, and settled Grantaire onto his side; a couple of seconds later, a cloth was pressed against his wound, causing him to hiss as it stung. Joly apologised profusely, but applied more pressure. Joly sighed deeply and bit his lip, “there’s too much bleeding, and I’m worried there may be some sort of fracture, which judging by the size of that rock, there probably is.”

Grantaire fisted his hand in Enjolras’ trouser leg and slurred, “’Jolras, I love you.”

“Don’t say it like that,” The blond in question hissed, a flash of pain running through his eyes. “Don’t say it like you’re saying goodbye. You’re going to be completely fine and in a year we won’t even remember this.”

“I still love you.” Grantaire replied, a slight smile tugging at his lips.

A moment, and then, “I love you too. I always will.”

“I know,” Grantaire smiled.

~~

Enjolras rode in the ambulance with Grantaire, talking to him to keep him awake. He reminded the raven haired man of the day they met, the trip they’d taken to London on their first anniversary, the snowy week they’d spent locked up in Enjolras’ room as they waited for the cold spell to pass. Grantaire smiled as much as he could at the memories (which wasn’t much, and that terrified Enjolras—along with the way his boyfriend’s eyes were unfocused and half lidded) and offered up the occasional comment—little comments about his favourite parts of all those memories.

When they arrived at the hospital Grantaire was taken away, barely conscious, covered in blood and suffering from a nose bleed that according to the paramedics, was not a good sign. Enjolras had nothing to do but wait; Grantaire would be fine, because he was Grantaire and he was always fine. He couldn’t even consider any other possibility.

Their friends arrived not long after, covered in dirt and some brandishing their own injuries, and they all huddled together in the waiting room to wait for some sort of news. Hours passed without any sign of a doctor—tears were shed, from Enjolras, from Courfeyrac and from Eponine. Bahorel’s temper rose at their lack of answers, and Feuilly had to take him outside to chain smoke three cigarettes to calm him down. Joly had drifted off on Bossuet’s shoulder, and Combeferre in the corner, by the time the doctor came around. 

“I’m sorry,” he pronounced, his aged features crinkled with sorrow. “We did all that we could but an artery burst when your friend hit his head, and it bled out onto his brain. There was also a depressed fracture, which the blood clotted underneath; we tried to operate to lift the bone but there was too much bleeding for us to be able to do anything. I am so sorry for your loss.”

Enjolras wanted to call him a liar. Grantaire couldn’t be dead; there was no way that the blond could fathom a world where he had to live without Grantaire, not now that he knew what it was like to live with him. He felt numb, as if his heart was suddenly gone from his chest and had taken all feeling with it. Jehan was up and had wrapped his arms around the blonde’s waist before he could even think about it, his tiny frame shaking with sobs, but Enjolras couldn’t cry. He wanted to cry, but he was too numb.

He didn’t cry as his friends surrounded him in the waiting room, offering him support and condolences even though they had lost Grantaire too. He didn’t cry as he was shown down a long corridor to where Grantaire’s body was, and he didn’t cry when he saw his boyfriend pale and unresponsive on a hospital bed. He didn’t cry as he said goodbye, or pressed that final kiss to Grantaire’s forehead, and he didn’t cry as Combeferre drove him home to the apartment he shared with the cynic. 

He couldn’t cry. If he cried the situation would become real, and he couldn’t believe that. So he didn’t cry as he crawled into their bed that night, the sheets still smelling of Grantaire, and he didn’t cry as he feel asleep in the late hours of the morning. 

When he woke up the next morning, he immediately reached out to grasp at the other side of the bed, feeling around for his boyfriend. He was halfway through calling out the cynic’s name when he realised that it hadn’t been a horrible dream. Grantaire was gone and there was nothing he could do to bring him back. 

And that was when Enjolras started crying, and he cried so much he didn’t think he’d ever stop.

**Author's Note:**

> I wrote it in like three hours so it sucks so baaaaad
> 
> Feedback would be the best thing in my life


End file.
